


watercolour bleeding

by isolationist



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Historical Hetalia, M/M, Pining, Requited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:33:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23862355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isolationist/pseuds/isolationist
Summary: three times japan yearns to reach out. timestamps from 1950-1990s.
Relationships: China/Japan (Hetalia)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 21





	watercolour bleeding

China can barely be seen further than a step away from Russia at any given time. Japan thinks sometimes of reaching out. Of stopping them at meetings, of saying something to him beyond polite greetings. It isn’t his place. It hasn’t been for a very long time, if it ever was, but that doesn’t stop him from wondering what could be. What could have been.

He says nothing. Doesn’t reach out.

America calls on him, wanting his attention. Japan turns to face him, the youth that has had a hand in shaping the world so greatly, now and most definitely in the future to come. Their relationship is not exactly the same as it had been before and the change of pace from his more recent allies makes it feel as if Japan has to relearn how to navigate it. It’s starting to fall into place though. What is more difficult is to tell what America thinks, as he approaches most people with the same single minded enthusiasm and certainty. 

Japan listens to America’s chatter; some of it important, related to international affairs and politics, some of it mindless in a way that has him think that America enjoys the sound of his own voice. His gaze drifts during this time, once more returning to China. How can a person seem to be so distant when they’re in the same room as everyone else? Japan doesn’t understand, but this distance doesn’t seem to only be discernible to him. He catches others looking at times, small hidden glances at China — and at Russia, who presumes to speak for his sisters and _friends_ , too. 

Even if he had matters to deal with at his own house after, China was part of the allegiance that was victorious in the war. He appears further from the West than he's been in centuries. They don’t speak of it, of course not. There is a sense of irony to this that Japan isn’t yet sure he has learnt to appreciate. No ongoing war spanning the entirety of the world, only tension. Most of it between the humans in their nations. 

Laughter still comes easily for China, it seems. A sudden show of amusement displayed at something that Russia must’ve mumbled. From how his eyes crinkle, turn into crescent moons, it seems genuine. 

Japan’s eyes meet England’s from where the other nation is seated across the table, his gaze having travelled the same path as Japan’s. No one would have noticed unless they were watching themselves. He knows that past tension between them has still not fully disappeared. That Hong Kong, seated next to England in the false image of a young teenager uncaring about the adults around him, serves as a reminder at every turn. The one little brother that China still argues to have a claim to, the brother he thinks he should have returned. The tips of England’s ears slowly turn a faint shade of pink and he breaks eye contact with Japan.

America’s monologue continues at an unchanging speed, but the topic seems to have snowballed while Japan wasn’t paying attention.

“Is that so,” Japan says. It lacks the intonation of a question. America doesn’t seem to care or notice, and either starts anew or continues with the same gusto.

Years pass. Other than geographically, embraced and ensnared as he is on land to both the north and the west, China is no longer close with the Soviet Union. He no longer sticks to Russia’s side at meetings and is never found close to him unless it can’t be avoided; for good reason, people do their best to not have that happen. It is with certainty that Japan knows that for a long time China has regarded his northern neighbour with no small amount of worry. A boisterous attitude with blunt words and no sugar coating to hide that worry is a defence mechanism that has been deployed before, and it has made an appearance ever since the rift first came to be. In the decade and some years since, the field of politics has changed.

It is China versus the already divided world in what became a trilateral cold war. With the freedom of not presenting a joint front, China became less subdued. The slow but steady growth, gaining in on the rest of them. It can be so easy to lose track, to forget that beyond the exterior is a nation far older than any of them. Japan wonders if he can count himself lucky to have the allies he has. He knows China has called him a running dog for America.

There are other, more recent, changes too. It is more tentative, the result of decades if not centuries of distrust only furthered by politics. China has more nations over to visit his house. Invites them himself.

Even so, even with invitations and bridges being built Japan wonders if he will ever be able to touch him. No matter how brightly China smiles at him now, how he nags Japan to come visit and have prompted him to stay for dinner more than a handful of times, Japan can’t help but feel that the other man is still as far away as he has ever been.

That figure that has always been out of reach, no matter how close. The person who insisted on calling them brothers, for much further beyond a time when Japan would agree with it — if he ever did. He can't pinpoint exactly when his feelings for China had changed from an elder of certain respect to someone that he desired in a most tangled manner.

A blur of greys and greens pass by through the car window, slower now that he’s soon to reach his destination. China had once looked so big. Japan remembers having to crane his neck to look at him, to see his face. He had always been all smiles, pouting only at the crime of Japan going off to do his own thing or denying their closeness. Even that had never been too serious. 

He greets Japan at the door. Welcomes him in. He is still taller than Japan, if only by a few centimetres, and this is likely always going to remain this way. The only exception Japan can think of would be if the sun was truly setting upon him, China no longer able to go on. It is almost unimaginable. China has survived dynasties changing and political upheaval for longer than anyone else still alive. Japan’s thoughts travel to nations who knew China before Japan met him, of Empires so distant while he was a toddler exploring his islands on his own and not yet found by China in that bamboo forest when venturing further. 

For what is not the first time, and certainly not the last, Japan allows himself to take in China’s form, hidden as it is beneath his favoured oversized changshan as he follows him inside. It is impossible to fully conceal what lies beneath and Japan has an idea of what does, from the western suits or the military garb that hugs China’s body. Narrow and lean. Lithe. An elegant picture, as though painted by an old master. An orchid somehow standing unmarred by the world.

Japan could never dare reach out. China carries immortality with grace that the rest of them lack. It is hidden beneath an exuberant and youthful demeanour, one that crosses over into negative descriptors quite easily. (Embarrassing, juvenile, unbefitting.) Eternally China has appeared as a youth, a young adult, and only his eyes and aching joints to betray him. There is a beauty to China that is undeniable, from lands and riches to his physical form. The small face and large golden brown eyes, the prideful way he holds his head up high on a slender neck, the delicate wrists. It’s deceptive. That is the most beautiful thing about him. 

China doesn’t ask if his journey went well. Japan wonders if he expected him to. In another room, the radio is turned on. The voices garbled, difficult to make out through the distance. His Mandarin is not the best anyway. The confirmation that China still has ideas of his own is assuring. With just a quick glance it is clear that though parts of the building looks a lot more modern than it used to, China’s home is filled with memories of millenia past, decorated with trinkets and art in what amounts to a collection that almost modestly displays the greatness of his country.

The doors to the deck are opened, presenting a small low table with a blanket at each side. The views of the garden are as enticing as ever, and Japan considers if this is something China prepares for every guest or if China knows it is something Japan would appreciate. 

There is a plate full of persimmons that China brings out as Japan seats himself on the left side of the table. Japan refrains from commenting about China being unprepared. The fruits are brilliantly orange, their peels shiny, and Japan can only presume they taste as good as they did in the past. He watches the stretch of trees by the edge of the garden, brimming with fruit that brighten the scenery.

Winter seems to be just around the corner, almost daring to peek out, and there is a certain crispness even during the daytime in the remaining autumn days. Perhaps it is affecting China’s mood, for he has been unusually quiet for the extent of Japan’s visit. Perhaps, Japan is starting to believe, he came at a bad time. After putting off China’s ever present invitation and reminder thereof, he had called the other to let him know he intended to arrive. It had been met with no refusal, just China’s normal chatter and exclamations of happiness.

A set of tea cups and a pot is placed on the table too, and China grins widely as he sits down by the empty side of the table. 

“There, all set,” he says simply. Japan nods in acknowledgement.

Japan prefers to be seated at this side of China for the simple pleasure to fully see the gentle fall of hair that comes from the ponytail placed over his shoulder. A splash of ink drawn with a single brushstroke, steady and certain. As a child, Japan had helped China comb his hair a few times. He wonders if it would still be as soft to the touch. 

China cuts the fruit silently, knife held with nimble fingers. His hands are those of a scholar, an artist, elegant and slender, even if Japan has seen them used for many other pursuits. For farming with dirt beneath his nails, for holding the hands of lost children he so easily takes in, for lifting pots and pans heavy with food, or for pressing a finger to the musket trigger. Though there aren’t many of them the small scars and cuts on the skin seem paler than the moon. 

Juice trickles down his fingers. The ripeness of the fruit is indisputable, sweet scent filling the air. If he were allowed— no, if Japan dared, he would take those hands with his own, lift them to his mouth to clean those fingers with his tongue and leave little kisses or nips to the fingertips as he went. Heat rises to his face at his thoughts, but he is certain his face remains unreadable. 

As if to mock him, China lifts his hand up and catches a drop of the juice with a flick of his tongue to his thumb. Another drop escapes with the help of gravity, running down the fragile skin of his wrist. China smiles and shakes his head, not chasing after it as it soon lands on the fabric of his shoved up sleeves. Japan’s hands clench the blanket covering his legs, catching just a small piece of his trousers in his grip too. 

The sliced fruit is placed on that same large plate that China had plucked it from, glistening wet flesh almost translucent in parts. Japan glaces from it to China’s face. The habit China made of bringing snacks with him to meetings in false pretences of prosperity took some time to catch. To see the gaunt lines of ever sharp cheekbones that only lately have begun to become less prominent again.

China mistakes his gaze for one of inquiry, and motions for Japan to take a piece of fruit. Japan bows his head. Does as asked.

“I’m glad,” China says, “that you could come.” 

The first bite has his tongue awash with sweetness, not even a hint of bitterness, and Japan has to close his eyes at the flavour. It reminds him of days since long gone by, when he had been the second tallest of the children China took in to raise intermittently, even if Korea was never too far behind. A few of the harvested fruits were eaten fresh, just like now, and the rest were carefully handled and prepared for drying and preservation. _For sweets throughout winter_ , China had told them in that voice of his, that tone of bragging as he took pride in sharing his customs with them. 

China pushes some of his fringe back from his face, tucking the hair behind the small shell of an ear. He is smiling delightedly, almost childish in his joy, from Japan agreeing to be treated to snacks. Nevermind that China had made them stop to buy them to go along with the alcohol Japan offered when he invited him over after the meeting that had taken up most of their day.

Without asking, Japan has already prepared to let him stay the night. An extra pillow readied, an extra blanket brought out just in case. If China ends up returning home in a fit of drunken pettiness, he’ll never even know of it. There is a comfort in that.

This early in the season means that though it’s a summer night it is comfortable to sit outside, no sweltering heat lingering long into the night. The thin cotton fabric of his shirt sticks to his back anyhow from the tacky sweat drying the longer he's able to sit entirely still. Japan takes his cup, sipping slowly from it before taking another bite. China is eating too, plopping dried squid and salted nuts into his mouth intermittently at breakneck speed and somehow still finding the time to chatter and lead a conversation that feels not entirely one-sided only because he is careful to listen for Japan weighing in. In his usual fashion everything but politics is brought up, even if that's the whole reason he is visiting, certain topics allowed to drop when they're in the presence of one another and alone.

He claims that worrying is for their leaders to do. Japan does not disagree. The moon is bright tonight and would be enough to illuminate them softly; the electric light in the kitchen doing nothing but robbing them of their mesopic vision from where it peeks out much stronger through the curtains. The mix of blueish moonlight and warm yellows marry beautifully on China's features though, a gentle glow cast across his face. 

A glance or two, Japan can grant himself, studying that face. Even when still China is lively, bustling with energy, _alive_ with what may become another golden age in a very different way from the past. If the last few decades had been in his favour, the tides will soon turn if they haven’t already.

The tray is pushed out of the way and China shuffles closer, leans across Japan to grab the bottle and serve them both what little is left inside it. The last drop hits the surface of Japan's cup, with an infinitely small sound that Japan barely makes out over their combined breaths and the buzz of flying insects, and the surface ripples. Broken.

Then, the moment is broken when China falls back, gives ground and settles into his own space — even if they are so close now that their shoulders almost brush. He takes a sip, uncaring to keep up facades of anything but enjoyment of it as he downs it.

Japan's eyes fall to China's half open mouth, glistening with remnants of alcohol.

Japan downs the remnants of liquor in the same fashion, closing his eyes as he throws his head back. He wonders if he should offer to get them something more to drink. Perhaps something else. He isn't drunk, barely even relaxed enough to feel tipsy, but for a second he feels dizzy. Hot. He puts down his cup on the wood on his free side and hastens to unbutton the shirt cuffs so he can push them out of the way, push them up his forearms. With China visiting, he hasn't had the time to change clothes when he got home, and he regrets it now. The comfort of his casual lounge wear, ratty t-shirt and all, or even a yukata would be preferable. Anything allowing for more air to hit his skin would do. 

At his side China appears loose-limbed and relaxed as he gazes at the moon. A small sigh leaves him. There are a few strands of hair clinging to his cheek, the stark contrast clear even in the dim light. Light perspiration beads where the ponytail rests against skin on the back of China’s neck.

Something very similar to fondness brings a small smile tugging at Japan’s lips. The silence that has fallen upon them is comfortable, only the quiet sounds of night filling it. It is too early for cicadas and their song, too, at this point in the season. The hour is growing later, and Japan has been an early-riser for all his life. He wonders if China wishes to retire for the night, or to return home, after all. If he should breach the subject.

Neat nails like light pink seashells, the very edge of them just barely long enough to scrape over skin as he trails them up what is bared on the inside of Japan’s wrist. If he had let his fingertips touch instead, he would have felt the flutter of Japan’s pulse rushing rabbit quick at their close proximity. Japan can feel the hairs on his arm rise at the sensation. China still has it in him to surprise him, and he does so once more when he breaks the silence. 

“I once spoke to Russia,” China whispers, “about you.”

Japan sits, quietly. He wonders how long ago that would have been. Anytime during the last century would be a reasonable guess, but perhaps… he shakes his head. China leans closer, rests his head on Japan’s shoulder even if it has to be uncomfortable for him at that angle. Their cups sit abandoned on the floor. Empty. The alcohol is noticeable on China’s breath and Japan had paced him evenly. 

“To think,” Japan says, softly, voice a low murmur in his chest, as though it will barely leave him, “the moon would be with us tonight.”

It isn’t a distraction nor a change of topic. From China’s small but sharp intake of air, a sense of understanding can be discerned. Something unbidden and small grows in Japan. He swallows drily. This moment feels fragile, something to be handled with care because it— it is so close now. Almost within reach. The feeling of being on the verge of something overcomes him. It would be so easy to sit still, to stay quiet and Japan entertains the idea. It does not cause him discomfort with what the situation, what their relationship, is now. Something previously fractured that only with their joint care has grown into something that already is quite different from what it had been so long ago. What purpose would it bring to shatter it?

A risk of losing is not going to stop him though. Japan has his pride. The ball has already been set in motion, and he inhales.

China's head lifts from his shoulder. His eyes are almost hidden in shadows, darkness exacerbated by the night and hiding the gold of his iris. In another setting, it would be easy to picture him— Japan mustn't let his thoughts get ahead of him. He exhales. He casts another look at the moon.

“With history like ours,” Japan begins, uncertain how to continue even before China’s lips crash against his in a hurried kiss, his hand having found its way to the nape of Japan's neck and turning them face to face. The uncertainty dissipates slowly and only when China pulls back, most likely ready to retreat further, does Japan move. Grasp his sleeve with one hand, fabric soft and slippery between his fingers.

Maybe China will still be there when the world is awash with the pale sunlight of dawn.

**Author's Note:**

> intentionally vague timeline explained slightly:  
> \+ timestamp one: 1950s, pre sino-soviet split. (to narrow it down further - possibly post-korean war / pre vietnam war.)  
> \+ timestamp two: early 1970s, allusions to some happenings of the late 50s and the 60s. nixon’s ‘72 visit has happened.  
> \+ timestamp three: purposefully vague and less political/modern history focused, but to keep with the two decade skip let's say it's now the 90s.


End file.
